I watched through the departure glass as my wife, Sandra, was dragged away by airport security. She was screaming my name, her wig falling off, her hands in the air.
I sipped my champagne, turned my phone to Airplane Mode, and buckled my seatbelt.
I am not a victim. I am not asking for your pity. I am asking for a round of applause.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I served mine frozen.
My name is Kelvin. Six months ago, I found out that Sandra, the woman I married and sponsored through her Masters degree, was sleeping with our landlord.
I didn’t catch them in bed. I didn’t see a text message.
I saw the DNA test results for our set of twins.
“0% Probability of Paternity.”
The landlord, a short, pot-bellied man who always complained about maintenance fees, was the father of my children.
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I didn’t cry. I didn’t confront her. I didn’t break bottles or shout like a madman.
I went to work. I smiled when I came home. I played with the twins.
But inside, I began to draw a map. A map out of this marriage and into a new life.
Sandra had one weakness. She was obsessed with Japa. She wanted to move to the UK more than she wanted air to breathe.
So, I gave her a dream.
“Baby,” I told her one evening over dinner. “I got the job. The Tech company in London. They are paying for everything. Relocation allowance, visa for the whole family, everything.”
She screamed. She jumped on me. She called her mother. “Mama, we are going to London.”
I told her there was a condition.
“The company requires us to show Proof of Funds in our Nigerian account. We need to liquidate our assets here to show we have ties to nothing.”
She agreed.
She was so blinded by the lights of London that she didn’t read the documents I gave her to sign.
We sold her boutique.
We sold the land her late father left her in Lekki.
We sold her jewelry.
The money came into my account. Over 45 Million Naira.
“Don’t worry, baby,” I said. “I will convert it to Pounds when we get to Heathrow.”
I forged the Visa documents. I am a Graphic Designer, so it was child’s play. I printed out convincing Certificates of Sponsorship and Visa Approvals.
She packed her bags. She gave her clothes to her friends. She did a Send forth party. She insulted her enemies. “I am leaving this dirty country for you people,” she boasted.
We got to the airport today at 6:00 AM.
I had my real passport and a real ticket to Dubai.
She had her fake documents and a printout that was worth less than toilet paper.
When we got to the Check In counter, I told her, “Honey, let me quickly use the restroom. You stay in the queue.”
She nodded, adjusting her expensive sunglasses. “Be fast, baby. London is waiting.”
I walked to the restroom, took the back exit, and went straight to the other terminal where my actual flight was boarding.
I sat by the window and watched.
I watched as the airline staff checked her papers.
I watched as they frowned.
I watched as they called the supervisor.
I watched as Sandra started shouting, “My husband has the original. He is in the toilet.”
Then the Police came.
They checked the documents. Fake. Forgery.
She looked around, searching for me.
I sent her one last WhatsApp message before I boarded.
“The Landlord can pay for your bail. The twins are his, so the bills are his. Have a safe flight to nowhere, Sandra.”
I saw her look at her phone. I saw the moment her soul left her body. She collapsed on the floor.
As my plane taxied on the runway, I felt lighter.
I have 45 Million Naira in my Bitcoin wallet. I am single. I am free.
Some of you will say I am wicked. You will say I went too far.
But tell me…
If you found out you had been raising another man’s children for 4 years, paying school fees for the landlord’s seed, would you have walked away? Or would you have burned the bridge, the river, and the boat?
Don’t cheat on a patient man. We don’t get angry. We get even.
Cheers to my new life.
Drop a comment if you think I served her the right breakfast
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Credit: Single Christians on Facebook
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